Sherlock awakes to a massive pounding in his head and a horrid ache in his back. He's on the hard wooden floor, one of John's arms protectively draped across his chest. He's still cold and uncomfortable, but substantially better than last night. John's face is so close to his own, he can feel John's breath upon his cheeks. He had turned rather violent last night. There's a purple bruise beginning to form on the side of John's jaw. Sherlock must have hit him. And yet John still stayed. If that isn't loyalty, Sherlock didn't know what was.

He has this impending urge to kiss John. John's lips are right there, soft, slightly parted, so close. All Sherlock would had to do is move a little bit. And he does. He shifts onto his side to face John, their lips not even centimeters away from touching. Sherlock wants to. So bad. He ghosts over John's mouth. Just a little bit more. So close. So close.

And then Sherlock pulls away, struggling to sit up and carefully remove John's arm from around his torso. He can't do it.

When John wakes up, he's alone on the floor with a blanket draped across his body. He immediately scrambles to his feet when he realizes that Sherlock is gone.

Before John even walks into the living room, he can hear anguished moans and choked sobs. Stepping into the room he finds Sherlock slumped in the kitchen doorway with his back against the wall and his knees drawn into his chest. He's crying and he looks sick and awful, and John's heart actually breaks a little bit.

He approaches Sherlock, who croaks out "it hurts, John."

John falls to his knees to grab Sherlock and pull him into his chest. "I know," he whispers, stroking Sherlock's curly hair reassuringly. "I know."

"Fuck, you're a natural," Lestrade points out, amazed, although he had to pinch his nostrils closed with his fingers to keep the smell out.

John wipes up the vomit with no hesitation and actually laughs a little bit. "I've had practice. I'm pre-med, after all." He doesn't exactly know Lestrade well enough to spill his whole life story, more relevantly all the times he's had to clean up after his drunk-beyond-all-comprehension sister. "Besides, if you're a forensics major, shouldn't you start getting used to bodily fluids like this?"

Lestrade snorts. "Blimey, I'm really a pansy aren't I? Last year Sherlock dropped a bag of pig's blood all over the carpet and I fainted at the sight."

John laughs again. "That would have been amusing to see." He sort of feels bad for laughing and having a bit of fun while Sherlock's curled up in a ball on the floor writhing in pain, but just because Sherlock is miserable beyond belief, doesn't mean John has to be too. This is Sherlock's punishment for his bad decisions, after all.

"Thanks a ton, though," Lestrade says gratefully as John sprays the floor with some disinfectant. "I can't do half this stuff without freaking out. Last time this happened I had to call Mycroft and boy, was he pissed about it." He sighs sadly just then. "I'm going to make a crap police officer, aren't I?"

John shrugs. "Give it time. I'll bet you'll be the biggest, toughest, badass motherfucking DI London's ever seen."

Lestrade gives him a little half smile as a sign of gratitude.

By that time, Sherlock seems to have calmed down enough to slowly sit himself up. He's pale and sickly and skinnier than usual because John's having a hard time making him keep his food down. But despite his outward appearances, he seems to be calmer, more at peace.

Lestrade turns to him. "Feeling better, Sherlock?"

"Shut the fuck up Lestrade," Sherlock hisses in response, startling the two other men. "I know you're only here because your girlfriend dumped you last night."

Lestrade opens his mouth to ask, but Sherlock interrupts him to explain. "You usually smell like flowers and vanilla, not exactly a manly scent, but when you're sleeping with a girl who wears just that, it tends to stick. Today you smell like cheap men's cologne so you obviously haven't seen her since at least yesterday. Since you started dating her you've been taking care to be freshly shaven, but you haven't shaved this morning. You have no reason to, after all. There's a faint red mark on your left cheek, I can barely make out the finger marks, but they're there nevertheless. She slapped you rather hard, didn't she? Probably because you'd rather go out drinking with your forensics mates than watch some chick flick at her place, am I right? And judging by the veins in your right hand-."

"Okay!" Lestrade snaps to cut Sherlock off. "I get it. You're still an arsehole. Fuck, fine, if you're well enough to talk like that I'm leaving before you deduce everything about my sex life."

"Well, actually-."

With that being said, Lestrade leaves without so much as a hassle.

John and Sherlock are alone now. The silence is beautiful.

John clears his throat. "Thirsty?" He asks as if Sherlock hadn't just been a wriggling mess a minute ago.

"Parched," Sherlock responds.

John helps Sherlock to the sofa because Sherlock's legs are still a bit weak to walk on.

"Don't you have class?" Sherlock asks as John pours him a nice large glass of water.

"Don't you?" John grins as he walks back into the room to hand Sherlock the cup.

Sherlock takes it gratefully and downs the entire thing is no time at all.

They spend the entire afternoon watching crap telly together. And Sherlock only throws up twice.

At one point, John looks down to see Sherlock's hand shaking uncontrollably. His response is to grab that hand and intertwine their fingers, much to Sherlock's surprise. John can feel Sherlock's hand twitch almost violently, and he squeezes tight to let Sherlock know he's not ever going to let go. It's the most marvelous thing to feel Sherlock's fingers quiet themselves in John's hand slowly but surely, until they're almost completely still. His hand is still cold and clammy regardless, but John doesn't really seem to care about that.

The sound is muted because they don't actually care about what the hell anybody on the stupid show is saying. They see more entertainment in poking fun at all the characters.

"He's obviously not the boy's father," Sherlock points out sleepily. "You can tell by the turn-ups on his jeans."

"Mmm-hmm," John comments, equally as sleepy with his head resting on Sherlock's bony shoulder. One would think it would be highly uncomfortable, resting on something so lanky and bony, but John finds it rather comforting.

"John?" Sherlock says suddenly.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

"Mmm-hmm." John is too tired to mumble back a proper you're welcome, but he smiles nonetheless, happily accepting of Sherlock's rare gratitude.